She Sang At The Post Office Poem by Raj Dronamraju

She sang at the post office
"My grandfather touched me inappropriately"
Resist going berserk to don a mask of studied apathy
Perish boredom, perish religion, perish blue jean mini-skirts

She sang at the post office
"I am the XYZ communicator"
Committed followers are hard to come by
Such grandiose thoughts seem ridiculous

At the flea market, at the garage sale
She sits among the dog eared out of print paperbacks
The lamps without shades, the three-legged chairs
Sprawled on top of grief's kingdom
She must have monotony to cling to